


Every Little Helps

by shinobi93



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Explicit Language, M/M, Snippets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-10 00:00:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2003100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinobi93/pseuds/shinobi93
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fergus really hates the Westminster branch of Tesco. Regardless, he always seems to find himself there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Little Helps

**Author's Note:**

> Written for alichay and placetnemagistra, both of whom I thought could do with some ridiculous Adam/Fergus fic.
> 
> No warnings apply that I'm aware of.

There are, in Fergus’ mind, few worse places to be in the world than the Westminster Tesco Express at half past five on a Friday. He’s said this before in company, a lively conversation opener at a political drinks event, and found himself suddenly in the midst of awkward silences whilst a journalist famed for their reporting in war-torn countries glares at him with unconcealed hatred. He never wanted to be that kind of politician. A breath of fresh air in modern politics, he wanted people to say, but he has difficulty translating that from imagined complimentary articles into actuality. Trouble not panicking and saying the first thing that comes to mind. Even if that involves implicitly comparing places afflicted with war, poverty and famine with a busy and badly designed small branch of a supermarket chain.

People push past him in the tiny shop as Fergus peers at the remaining selection of ready meals and sandwiches. It is not inspiring. The better options have been cleared out by on-the-ball civil servants who don’t want to go shopping all weekend and spotty newcomers to the political ladder who tried cooking once at uni and didn’t like it. All Fergus wants is something to put in his empty fridge, so he can collapse in front of the TV whilst eating something that isn’t a dusty tin of Heinz soup or a bowl of cereal (without milk, he needs to buy that too).

A sad looking chicken tikka masala, microwavable fish and chips, or one of five tuna mayo sandwiches which Fergus swears seem a few seconds away from diving off the chiller shelf and making a break for it. He picks up the two ready meals and stares at them. Both will be depressingly unlike their takeaway counterparts, he knows, although perhaps fitting for a night of disappointing telly after a week of trying once more to be anything but a political non-entity. The store, laid out in a way reminiscent of a theme park queue, is not a good place for considering. Soon he will count as a major obstruction.

‘Get the curry, question what the fuck it was that made you consider that soggy looking excuse for a meal.’

Fergus’ head jolts up. A suited man is standing beside him, looking over Fergus’ options. He’s smiling and looks vaguely familiar in that Westminster way, where everybody has probably has made awkward small talk with everyone else at least once. Journalist, a voice in his head says, or maybe ex-journalist? It’s difficult to keep track.

Fergus goes to make a witty comment in return. He knows he can do it; it was only the other week that he was the cause of laughter (with him, not at him, important distinction) at a friend’s birthday meal (he’s not to know it, but in the future, Adam will mock him for remembering these occasions and using them as proof he’s funny). In the split seconds he has to retort, there’s no time to think, and certainly no time to realise the importance of the moment. He is just Fergus Williams, stumbling along, saying the first thing that comes to mind.

‘Can you make political decisions as well as that?’

He blinks. He did not expect to say that.

‘Was that a job offer?’

Fergus is as uncertain as him.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Adam.’

Fergus mentally flicks through the names of journalists he’s heard over the years. Adam? Kenyon, he thinks, possibly Kenyon. Probably competent. Not known for being incompetent, as far as Fergus knows. Maybe worked at the Mail, though Fergus will give him the benefit of the doubt regardless. Would probably look good for the public image. Sleek hair and all that.

‘It might be.’

A second passes. Maybe Adam Kenyon doesn’t get many job offers in Tesco. Fergus doesn’t think he looks like someone who’s ever worked in a supermarket, but he’s also not quite sure how you would tell. He tends to only meet supermarket employees when he’s in supermarkets.

‘Why don’t we go and eat something less depressing than the last ready meal in Tesco, and you can tell me all about how your decision making abilities are failing you so badly you’re looking for political help in this grim excuse for a shop?’

Fergus tries not to look flustered. ‘Fine.’

He puts down the ready meals and turns to leave.

‘Don’t you need milk?’ Adam asks.

‘What?’

‘You look like someone who’s always out of fucking milk.’

At that moment, Fergus decides he probably just made the right accidental decision. Here is a guy to keep around.

 

-

 

Fergus doesn’t know if he wants a wrap or a salad. He also doesn’t know whether he wants to fuck Adam Kenyon, or tell Adam to fuck off so he can think clearly again. If only he wasn’t in fucking Tesco, because he forgot lunch and it’s the closest place to buy something. If only he’d sent someone to buy food for him, because he’s junior minister and he should have that privilege, then he wouldn’t be panicking by the chillers, thankfully early enough in the day that there’s actual food left. Falafel wrap or chicken salad. Say something to Adam or avoid and hope it goes away.

‘Are you alright?’

The shop assistant is looking at him. He wonders why she cares, then notices she’s trying to restock the bottled drinks he’s standing in front of. No, he imagines saying, I’m trapped dithering in Tesco again, please stop shelving bottles of Coke so I can tell you all about it. Of course he won’t, because people don’t do that, but now he feels too awkward to keep standing there.

Fergus picks up the falafel wrap and heads to the checkout.

 

-

 

Don’t you know how fucking tiny this shop is, Fergus thinks in annoyance as he scans the shelves for the fancy crisps Adam asked for. When he asked ‘do we need anything?’, it was meant to answered with a ‘don’t think so’, and then Fergus could nip to Tesco in the happy knowledge that he’d asked, and wouldn’t have Adam complaining when they got back to the flat that actually they needed bread. Instead, Adam wanted posh crisps and a smoothie. Fergus knows he can’t really complain, as he’s only going to the shop as an excuse to get out of the office for a bit. 

Election time is drawing nearer; the pressure is on, despite the fact that, as Adam put it, ‘some people think we have as much chance as a mouse in a blender’. Personally, discussed over beer and takeaway and paperwork spread across the living room, Fergus is hoping for a coalition switch, a chance to escape from Mannion and his ever declining credibility even amongst his own party. Adam, determined, has turned the flat and Fergus’ office both into campaign headquarters, which is fine, Fergus thinks, perfectly fine, but it would nice to have somewhere to relax every once in a fucking while. So, he escapes, and then admits to Adam as they fall asleep that’s what he did, that he didn’t really need a very specific kind of tea at 10pm.

The crisps are definitely not there. The queue is snaking down the thin strip that constitutes the entire floorspace of this Tesco Express. Things are looking about as fun as when the party leader asks for suggestions for how to improve their public image.

He asks a harassed looking shop assistant about the crisps. When in doubt, delegate.

‘I don’t think so.’ She looks thoughtful. ‘The Tesco down the other end of Whitehall might have them though, it’s bigger.’

Fergus leaps upon the suggestion, a chance for extra time wasting, to visit the other Tesco Express, the one he always forgets exists because it faces Trafalgar Square and he prefers not to be faced with that many tourists at once. He walks down the street like an excited child on a school trip and returns to the office, laden with crisps and smoothie and a doughnut because that Tesco had doughnuts.

Adam grins. ‘Glad your escape mission was successful.’

‘I may have killed a small tourist child, but otherwise.’

‘We won’t put that on your election posters.’ Adam’s grin widens. ‘Now, do you want me to make some political decisions for you?’

‘Fuck off.’


End file.
